


white as snow

by Magali_Dragon



Series: one shots and other drabbles [23]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dany is very soft, Day 2: Dragons and Direwolves, F/M, Fluff, Jonerys Week, Jonerys Week 2020, Missing Scene, Pure Unadulterated Fluff, Snow Angels, Snowball Fight, entirely self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:40:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25370008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon
Summary: Dany arrives at Winterfell and feels she is being watched by someone...or something...so she goes to meet him.  And he is very, very fluffy.For Jonerys Week 2020/Dream of Spring Day 2: Dragons and Direwolves
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: one shots and other drabbles [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567705
Comments: 84
Kudos: 407





	white as snow

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2 of Jonerys Week brings more fluffy goodness! I am furious Dany never interacted with Ghost but I guess it is for the best. Dipshit and Dunghead probably would have had him growl at her or something. Because like everything they forgot that Ghost is mute. He legit CANNOT make a sound, so I figured when he does try it is like a squeak or a high-pitched whine.
> 
> Anyway, book Dany is going to throw Jon in the garbage as she runs for fluffy Ghost. Enjoy as this is entirely wish fulfillment of the highest form. It goes without saying the season-that-shall-not-be-named doth not exist.
> 
> Also THANK YOU SO MUCH to youwerenevermine for the weir wood pictures and helping me lighten and get rid of the awful blue filter on all the pics!

_"A white wolf in a white wood, silent as a shadow."_

\- **Jon XII** , A Dance with Dragons

_"And who would ever dare love a dragon?"_

\- **Daenerys II** , A Dance with Dragons

* * *

From the moment they began their journey from White Harbor to Winterfell, her Unsullied marching in disciplined unison and spears aloft, the Dothraki on their horses with their wild furs and war bells jingling, and her sons flying above with the heavy gust of their wings and piercing cries, Daenerys had felt eyes on her with every single step. The smallfolk came from everywhere, staring and watching them pass, some in awe for they had never seen anything remotely close to the armies she led through and some in disgust at the sight of a Targaryen on their land.

She kept trying to remember Jon’s quiet assurances, every night on the boat and every night in the tent when they camped on their slow-moving trek. “ _They don’t trust outsiders but they will trust you, because I trust you.”_ or his whispers of excitement, over how his siblings will love her because he does “ _Arya named her wolf after a warrior queen, she will be so excited, but do not let her pester you, she comes off strong but she’s all mush._ ” and even his hesitating reassurances regarding Sansa “ _She’s been through similar trauma, what the Boltons and Lannisters did to her, she has as much reason to hate them as you do, but she loves pretty things still, she will love you too._ ”

And in all that time she had never felt so nervous as to meet the one piece of his family he spoke most highly of, even more than his siblings. She worried her dragon blood would put him off of her, would maybe even turn him against her, or maybe the dragons would not get along either. They would reject this true embodiment of the North in the way the North seemed to reject her with their gawking and disgusted stares.

Eyes upon her with every step of her horse, she had become used to it, was accustomed to not taking a breath without someone’s eyes upon her, wondering if her exhale would be in flames. There was always a guard with her, whether it be Jorah or Grey Worm or Qhono. A contingent of her loyal soldiers and her people. The only time she was ever alone was with Jon, and even then, he stared at her, his gray eyes wide with affection and desire.

It was so much a part of her life, she did not notice it, until she happened to be in the yard of Winterfell, listening to the blacksmith Gendry Waters—a Robert Baratheon bastard she learned from Davos Seaworth— explain the process of turning the dragonglass into weaponry, spears for the Unsullied and even arakhs for the Dothraki. It was rather fascinating, and she’d been listening with rapt attention, until her skin prickled, chilling under her thick fur coat and the stifling sulfurous heat of the forge.

_I am being watched._

It did not bring her fear, like it probably should have, but she knew. Something in her blood could feel it and reached for it, touching out and in the back of her mind, her tether to Drogon tugging from his end. The great dragon was above them, wheeling in the sky, showing off for the smallfolk who looked on in fear and wonderment of a dragon reborn again. He wanted her to know something and she sought through the layers of what he could sense, vision flooding with the images of Winterfell beneath him.

Indeed, a presence lurked, but it was not malevolent in any way. In fact, the presence sensed her dragons within her blood, drawn to it, and she shivered again, this time the movement noticed by Jorah, who turned instantly to her, worried. “Your Grace, are you cold? We should get you inside, you do not need to become ill on the eve of battle.” He fretted over her like a mother hen sometimes.

Gendry stilled, hand gripping the iron tongs that rested some of the dragonglass in the fire, worried as well. “It is quite hot in here, sometimes the heat makes you forget the cold outside. We can continue this another time, Your Grace.”

“I am fine, truly,” she assured both men. She turned her head, scanning the yard, seeing her people working side-by-side with the Northerners. Some gave her dirty looks; she pushed that from her thoughts, plastering a smile on her face, genteel. “I believe I should return to the Keep, to discuss strategy with the war council.”

Jorah gave her a funny look; the council was not supposed to meet until before supper, which she had insisted be held in everyone’s rooms and tents, nothing fancy, but the Lady of Winterfell seemed to want to put on a show. _And then complain about it afterward_ , she thought darkly. Sansa had been how Jon had described her, but even he had been mortified at her behavior, apologizing after the disaster of a meeting with the Northern lords.

They left the forge, the presence keeping to the shadows, but following at her side. She wondered if Jorah felt it, but he gave no indication. She paused, looking to the entrance to the crypts, where Jon had gone almost immediately after they arrived. She wanted to venture down there soon enough, to give her respects to Rickard and Brandon, to send her apologies forth to their memories, and even to Ned Stark. She looked beyond the entrance to the crypts, towards a path trekking away from the keep, winding its way towards what she could see was a stone wall, the barest hint of bright red shining against the bright white sky.

Jorah followed her gaze, nodding. “That leads to the godswood.”

“The godswood?” Her Bear Knight took it as a question needing explanation, when she only meant to confirm; Jon had told her about the beauty of the Winterfell godswood, had been rather poetic about it, his gray eyes bright in the candlelight of their cabin, explaining his religion and his beliefs. She wanted to see it very much.

“The godswood where the Winterfell hearttree sits, Your Grace. It is where the followers of the Old Gods go to pray, where they believe the Gods hear their prayers and watch them, through the faces of the weirwood. There used to be weirwood trees across the Seven Kingdoms, but with the arrival of the Andals, the Rhyonar, and the First Men, they drove the Children of the Forest to the North and destroyed the hearttrees. Some still stand, but none below the Neck,” Jorah explained.

She nodded, pretending to absorb it. The presence in the back of her mind told her to go there, spoke to her. Drogon encouraged it, pushing the tether. She cleared her throat, lifting her face to Jorah’s concerned one. “I would like to visit.”

“Your Grace…”

“Please. I would like to be alone.” She paused. “I believe in no gods, but the Northerners do, and I should like to sit there, to see their place of worship, for they are my people too.” Her King believed in them, she wanted to see where he felt most at ease. He told her the godswood of Winterfell was the only place where he grew up where he could be himself, where he felt like he was not the Bastard of Winterfell, but Jon. _Just Jon._

The couple Unsullied guards with her and Jorah walked her to the entrance, the path hidden by a wide gate pushed inward and thick dark branches and bushes. Jorah moved to accompany her in, but she held up her gloved hand, stopping him. “Your Grace,” he almost begged, frowning. “There could be anyone in there.”

“I will be fine, I assure you.” Dany knew she was safe there. Probably safer than anywhere else she would be in Winterfell.

He hesitated, but nodded, giving up. She smiled briefly and turned, marching into the sacred wood. The snow seemed pristine, even as her boots lightly crunched in the faint outlines of someone who had come before her. She emerged around a corner, gasping at the sight before her.

The hearttree was massive, thick white trunk scattered with faint red lines. Its face cried or laughed, she couldn’t be sure, red sap the color of blood trickling from its eyes and mouth. The leaves fluttered lightly in the breeze, whispering, and it sounded like they were speaking. Speaking a language she couldn’t understand, but she knew it was a welcome, nothing angry or upset about her there at all. It accepted her. She could see beyond, to an inky black pool of water, mist of steam rising from it, one of the hot springs Jon had mentioned rested beneath the grounds of Winterfell and allowed the keep to be warm in the cold nights.

She moved towards the tree, sensing the presence, the energy drawing her here. Drogon was satisfied above. Her face lifted to the sky, seeing the speck of him crossing overhead and Rhaegal joining. Her heart ached for her lost son and the presence suddenly seemed sad too. “It was not your fault,” she whispered, knowing he could understand her, even if she had not even seen him yet. She smiled, her head turning slightly, where she felt the strongest pull in her mind. “You did not even know him but thank you for your sympathies. He was the gentlest of my sons. Perhaps you would have liked him.” She turned her body completely, to the thicket of dark bushes hiding him. Her lip quirked in a smile. “I guess you have met my other sons.”

Her heart hammered in her chest, anticipating the moment. This was something she’d been excited about. She knew it had to be on his terms. Was grateful he trusted her and wanted to see her. Especially here, in this private, sacred place. Her hands clenched in front of her, holding still, and watching.

And he appeared.

It was magic; there was nothing and suddenly there he was.

“Oh,” she gasped, hands lifting her mouth, biting hard on her gloves. She grinned, her entire body trembling. She resisted the urge to rush at him. “Oh you’re a beautiful, beautiful boy!”

The direwolf stood at the edge of the bushes, his massive head still, and red eyes unblinking. The coal black nose twitched, and Dany thought he was as beautiful as his image carved into the pommel of his companion’s sword, as holy as the crying red face in the white trunk behind her. “ _I called him Ghost, because he makes no sound._ ” He made no sound at all, not even his weight causing the snow to crack, heavy paws trotting towards her.

Dany couldn’t take it, she had to get to him, unable to resist. She hurried across the remaining distance and fell to him, arms outstretched, and then she was there, her cold face, cheeks pink with excitement, buried into the softest fur she had ever felt, warm and giving underneath her. “Oh,” she sighed, turning towards the beat of his heart, her arms wrapping around his thick neck. He was as large as a horse, his head coming almost to her shoulder. He probably even weighed twice as much as she, jaws strong enough to snap her neck, his claws so sharp they could kill her with a swipe.

Except he was so soft and warm and gentle. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her at all. She pulled her face from his neck, arms still around him, and looked at his face, his red eyes as warm as fire, burning into her. She pulled her arms free and tugged off her gloves, so she could actually feel him under her, and ruffling at his neck, giggling like a little girl, and not the stoic queen she always had to be.

It was so _freeing._ She knelt in the wet snow, smaller than the beast in front of her, and wondered how come she hadn’t had an opportunity to do this before. “Your man is naughty; he should have brought you with him to Dragonstone. You could have sat before the fires there with us, could have roamed the hillsides…seen the beaches and into the caves.”

She giggled again, his nose prodding her cheek, warm and wet. He twitched his ears and the nudges in her mind told her exactly what he felt about being left behind. He didn’t like it, he wanted to go to Dragonstone, staying in Winterfell had been…she laughed. “Boring? It was boring with White Walkers and the dead marching towards you?” He shook his head, fur rippling back from his neck with the movement. “Well I don’t think I want to know what you would find fun then.”

He twitched his ears again and his jaw opened, teeth as sharp as daggers, but his bright pink tongue lolled out and he sniffed at her, licking his lips. She touched her cold nose to his warm one, laughing out loud when he turned and ran his raspy tongue straight up her cheek, from chin to her hairline. “Oh!” She nuzzled into his muzzle. “You silly boy.”

She straightened, her hands still on his face. Her palms were so small they did not even cover his snout. He was gigantic, could cover her with his entire body if he so chose, but he did not frighten her at all. He danced backwards from her when she turned quickly and she jumped in place, her feet moving into a wider stance when she hit the ground, leaning forward and clapping her hands, her gloves having fallen to the ground.

He pushed back, haunches rising up, and his tail—as long as her arm and considerably fluffy—wiggled at the base, excited. He stomped his front paws into the snow, red eyes wide and watching. She moved one way and he went the same. Then she went the other. He mimicked her. She grabbed some snow and formed a crude ball, tossing it towards him. He jumped backwards onto his powerful back legs, launching his body into the air and snapping those powerful jaws onto the snowball, crushing it to water.

This created a game, which she enjoyed, running around in circles with him, throwing snow into the air and laughing when he chomped down on it. He didn’t bark or howl or whine like a common dog might, but he wiggled all over, tail blurring with his happiness. She ran towards him and grabbed hold of him again, his softness overpowering her. They fell to the snow, the wolf rolling on his back, feet waving in the air. She scrubbed his belly, almost shoving her face clear into it, shouting as he whipped his head from side to side in the snow.

_“You’re so fluffy!”_

It must have been her laughter or her yelling, but she looked up quickly when she felt footsteps hurrying towards her down the path and to her surprise, Jon emerged, gasping for breath, like he’d been running to get to her. He froze, staring wide-eyed at the sight of his direwolf lying on his back, her hands on his belly, and laughing hysterically.

The wolf popped up to his feet, quick as a cat, and pushed against her. She grinned and began rubbing her fingers in his ears. He burrowed his head into her hand like a hound would, her fingers rubbing at the base of the wolf’s ear. His eyes were closed, clearly enjoying her ministrations. She beamed, flushed and warm all over. “Hi Jon! I was just getting acquainted with someone here.”

Jon’s mouth opened and closed a few times, trying to judge what had been going on. He turned and looked over his shoulder and then back to her again, a wry smile pulling on his lips. “I guess I misjudged the feelings I had.”

“What was that?”

“I was…I was with Sam and thought I felt…” He touched his fingertips to his heart, walking towards her, his heavy dark fur cloak dragging in the snow. “Thought I felt him upset, but I guess he was… _happy._ ”

“Of course he was happy,” she scoffed. She pursed her lips, making kissing sounds to the furry wolf, who was now leaning hard on her other hand, enjoying the attention to his other ear. She fell to her knees, now shorter than the wolf. “He’s such a sweet boy, he’s so happy, yes you are! You’re so happy!”

He opened his mouth, making a high-pitched sound she assumed meant he enjoyed her attentions. Jon laughed. She looked up, questioning. He shook his head again and scrubbed his hand over his hair. “He…he doesn’t make noise. I never thought he could.”

“Well he is now.” He made another sound again. She chortled. “He’s the fluffiest thing I have ever felt. My sons, when they were just hatched, their hide was like velvet, their scales hadn’t hardened yet. Now they are iron and as hot as the fire they breathe.”

Ghost moved his nose to Jon, pushing at his hand. He opened his jaws and sunk his teeth into the thick leather glove he wore, beginning to swing it back and forth. She laughed, clapping her hands together, amused. Jon grinned and swung his arm a little harder, giving Ghost some resistance in his game. He chuckled. “He loves this game. He’s done it sicne he was a pup.”

They played it for a few moments, the wolf swinging his head back and forth as he dragged his companion’s hand from side to side, and soon he gave up, returning to her, his nose cold on her bare palm. She did not have her gloves on any longer, did not fancy trying the game without the protective layer, but it seemed he had other ideas, moving beside her and flopping onto his back, starting to roll in the fresh snow. She giggled and ignored Jon’s protests, joining the wolf on her back, staring up at the weirwood tree. She met his eyes, listening to him, his silent instruction, and she swung herself from side to side in the snow, wiggling into the fluff, mimicking him.

“Gods be good.”

“What? We’re playing.”

“You are the bloody Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, rolling on your back in the snow.” He was simultaneously mortified and attracted; she could hear it in the low timbre of his voice. He approached her, peering down, a hand on the hilt of Longclaw and the other on his hip. He shook his head, chuckling. She loved when he laughed; it was such a rare sight. The scars on his face disappeared and he looked closer to his two and twenty years.

She kicked her boot into his ankle. “Get down here with us.”

A grumble answered her and he reached to pull off his cloak and swordbelt, so they were not encumbering him, and joined her. He looked at Ghost, who was still on his back, mouth open and tongue lolling. “You have to make shapes,” he told her. “He likes when you do that.”

“Oh he does?”

“Aye.”

“What kind of shapes?”

“We can make dragons.” He moved his arms; now she realized why he’d taken off the cloak. Up and down and then lifted at his waist, turning and pointing to the depression. “See? Like a dragon’s wings.”

Nothing had brought her as much joy, swinging her legs and arms around int eh snow, the wet seeping through her fur coat, but she was still warm. She bounced around the godswood with Ghost, falling into the snow and making shapes. She had never had this much fun, had been this free. She only ever felt like that when she was up in the sky, atop Drogon. She suspected her king agreed with her, for he was ruddy-faced, smiling, when they finally stopped, breathing heavily and flushed.

The wolf approached them again. She knelt and buried her number fingers into his ruff. “He is  
He is so soft; I could just curl up in him like a big blanket.”

Understanding her, he sat back, moving his shoulder to hers, and his head wrapping to rest against her, like he was wrapping her into his body. She sighed, forgetting the wet cold of her knees, the mud stained white fur of her coat, and her numb fingers.

Jon continued to marvel at the reaction of his wolf to her, still unable to figure it. “He’s very gentle, but…he never takes to people like this.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “I should have known he’d love you. Mother of Dragons. A direwolf would be as gentle as a kitten to you.”

“My sons are like kittens,” she said. To her they were at least. She grinned at his eyeroll. “He’s lovely Jon. He’s so soft, he’s like a puppy.”

“He’s a direwolf, not a puppy. He’s wild.”

“As are my dragons.”

They squared off, almost trying to argue who had the fiercest creature to their command. Except her dragons were not slaves, and Jon never referred to Ghost as _his._ Always his companion, his mate, and his best friend, but never in a way to denote he commanded him like someone did a dog or a horse. Jon moved towards them and knelt, his hand going to pet at Ghost’s neck. The wolf shot him a sideways look; one Dany thought could only be described as _annoyed._

“Aye, I’m sorry, I didn’t come see you first. I thought you’d come find me!”

He swung his head from Jon, towards her again. She smirked at Jon. “He loves me more.”

“He’s just looking for attention. He wants to make me jealous.”

“It’s clearly working!”

Jon scowled over top the wolf’s head, towards her, but his eyes were light with mirth. “Maybe it is.”

They grinned at each other. Only they could understand the connection each had with their beasts. She kept rubbing Ghost’s ears, her face reaching towards his neck again and inhaling the scent there. Wild, forest, and almost like ash. Drogon tugged on her mind again. She pulled back, whispering. “You met them, huh? What’d you think?”

This time it was Jon who spoke, not the direwolf. “He’s fascinated by them. They are of him, he thinks.”

“They’re magic.”

“Aye.”

 _We are magic._ The dragons and the direwolves, the creatures long thought gone from the world, returned. She got back up to her feet. Looking around the godswood again, she could scarcely imagine it was real, even if she stood there and felt her heart beating, the wind whipping in the leaves, and the cold on her heated skin. “This place is something else Jon. I cannot believe I am finally here. Growing up in the desert and…and those days where I thought I was going to die in the Red Waste or with the Dothraki…” She fought back tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Her hand tightened in Ghost’s fur and he leaned on her knees.

Above them, Drogon screeched, her distress reaching his heart. She comforted him, reminding her son she was alive, strong, and healthy. All she could feel was his wish he could have done more for her. Her smile wavered. He loved her so much. She glanced at Jon, who was watching the sky, the dragons wheeling around. Rhaegal had taken to him, allowing him to pet and get close, and while she did not have the bond with her feistiest child as she had with Drogon, she could feel his yearning for Jon, a desire to reach for him that Drogon did not have.

She wondered if Jon could ride him, if maybe his connection to the direwolf at her feet extended to other magical creatures. _Maybe we will try it later._ She looked to Ghost again; whose ruby eyes were fixed on her again. “He sees through me in a way I did not expect,” she said, running her fingers through his fur, his eyes squinting shut in pleasure.

“He is something special.” He touched his wolf’s head, sad. “He is the last of his litter. Arya says Nymeria still lives, still wanders the Riverlands, but she is gone, untethered to her mind. He is all that is left of the Stark direwolves.” He smirked, sarcastic. “Ironic. I am not even a Stark.”

“You have their blood,” she breathed. She would not hear of him disparaging himself, not in this holy place to those of his blood, in the shadow of Winterfell’s great keep, and with his direwolf at his feet for the first time in months. She stepped to him, her arm stretching over his abdomen, around his waist, so she was holding him, looking up. She smiled at his shy smile. “You do have not their name, but you have their blood.”

“My father said that, it was the last thing he said to me.”

“Ned Stark may not have been very smart, but at least he was right on that count.” She leaned into him, eyes fluttering shut, his warmth filling her. He covered her with the edge of his cloak, surrounding her. She smiled. They had not been able to be together the night before. Too close to Winterfell, they had not rested long before starting the journey again and Tyrion had been up with her all-night discussing strategies.

She looked up, about to suggest they venture to check on the dragons, maybe steal away some time indoors, preferably in her chambers, when she startled, turning to look at Ghost, who had wedged his great head between them, his nose shoving down into her lower belly, almost between her legs. “Oh!”

“You mangy cur!” Jon laughed, pushing at him. “Behave yourself, this is the queen!”

She giggled again, shoving her face into Jon’s chest. “Oh he’s fine, just surprised me.” He did it again, almost knocking her onto her arse with the force of his movement. She laughed, unable to stand upright without Jon, her limbs slack from amusement. “Hey now! We have just met after all! We’re not that well acquainted!”

He burrowed to her belly again. She softened, letting go of Jon and falling to her knees once more, allowing the wolf to settle into her and her arms around him. She sighed, face shoving into his neck once more. A stillness covered her. She felt calm and relaxed. There were so many dangers upon them, so many worries and concerns and fears. Except for some reason now they all disappeared, with Ghost close to her. In an odd way it seemed half of her blood stilled, settling and seeking the wolf.

The King standing beside her shook his head, murmuring. He was pleased. “He’s besotted.”

“He’s perfect,” she whispered, closing her eyes again, holding him.

His voice husked, thick with emotion. “The two beings I love most in this entire world.”

Her heart surged into her ribs, reaching for him, and the wolf lifted his head, peering up at his companion. She stood slowly, one hand on the wolf, who did not let her go easy, and the other going to the other wolf, _her_ wolf, touching his jaw and guiding his face towards her, a gentle kiss sending a shock of heat through her body to her toes, curling into her boots.

They stood together for a moment, lips barely touching when they broke from the kiss, and savored each other. She smiled, ducking her head and watching the emotions filling his face. He had to school himself his entire life to keep his true feelings buttoned beneath the surface, except with her he could be free, as she could with him.

 _Who would dare to love a dragon_ , she had wondered a long time ago, her children violent and angry, uncontrollable. Perhaps just like her.

It seemed only a direwolf could.

They kissed again, beneath the weirwood, and Ghost pushed harder to her belly, while above her dragons sang.


End file.
